Game Night
by SpellboundWinter
Summary: Christophe was a fan of the kinky types of games. The type that leave him in control. The games where he would win. Tying up, toys, gags and… Board games. Yeah, you heard right. The Frenchman had two secrets. Rebecca Cotswolds and the games they would play alone in her kitchen.


**Not the greatest thing I've written. Bleh.**

* * *

Christophe liked playing games with women.

Why? Because he was always in control of the situation, he knew how to get in their heads. Was it manipulation? Maybe, but he always got what he want.

…Basically he was a French brat, but enough about that.

He was a fan of the kinky types of games. The type that leave him in control. The games where he would win. Tying up, toys, gags and…

Board games.

Yeah, you heard right.

Board games.

The Frenchman had two secrets.

Rebecca Cotswolds and the games they would play alone in her kitchen.

The poodle haired woman would sit, still dressed in her office attire, hair pulled into a tight bun as her spelling tics and fidgeting really showed as she pondered. Meanwhile, Christophe chewed at the end of his unlit cigarette, plotting, and eyes glinting.

The two _extremely_ competitive.

Christophe was a spoiled brat who wanted to always be the winner while Rebecca's motives were unclear… but it didn't mean she wouldn't play dirty.

The woman could sit and play board games for hours with Christophe, and while he couldn't play it for hours, it was a much needed rest for the European. Admittedly, it was a good way to burn off some much needed steam… well, at first anyways.

It started as few chess games at his college dorm and somehow it had become a tradition. It's something they'd do on their days off, (and when Christophe was done with a covert operations and espionage). But, it's all fun and games… until the fun games become a complete free-for-all with tactical guerilla warfare sprinkled in.

And the two would sit there, taking monopoly or whatever they were playing, completely serious. Christophe would assess the situation while Rebecca would play innocent until she went for the kill. It reminded of Christophe of those guard dogs he hated so much, as soon as Christophe was close to getting what he wanted she would stir and maim him.

Fucking poodle.

Those fucking curls.

Always defensive; while playing games and in the literally sense.

The fun had been sucked dry out of game night like a talented hooker. And maybe it was starting to show. He acted the way he looked, older. His wrinkles were defined, probably from the copious amounts of cigarettes he smoked on average… or the stress from these ridiculous fucking games.

Mancala, chess, checkers, fuck even Chinese checkers.

She would win sometimes and sometimes he would win. It was a pretty even score throughout. But, one game he could never win… Never even stand a chance was Scrabble.

Maybe his English was rusty… or maybe it was because English spelling was difficult and unnecessarily hard… either way, it didn't make up for how bad he sucked at it.

The woman sits cross legged on her chair, and if he could, he would be more interested in imagining what lied beneath that bright colored skirt of hers but his competitive streak in him was keeping him busy. She bites at her lip as she lines up more letters before looking up to the Frenchman and giving him a confident smile. "G-go ahead, Christopher."

"Don't call me zhat." he hesitates for a moment, distracted by the nickname. He places two scrabble pieces on the board spelling out a simple word. He smirks to himself, satisfied on finally catching up to her.

Her eyes glint, lips twitching as she scribbles on a piece of paper, "Cat. Three points. T-h-r-e-e."

The guard dog already started to stir. Christophe could tell.

It's her turn and Christophe is already leaning in, biting his unlit cigarette tightly, and making it squeak against his teeth. Rebecca plucks a piece out from the bag and places it on her full tray. She pats her hands together, mouthing to herself, making a rhythm of letters.

"You're losing meess zmarty-pants," The mistotheist says rather smugly, crossing his legs and giving a victorious grin, "I told you I'd best you-"

She places a tile down, then another, then another, then… "S-e-s-q-u-i-o-x-i-d-i-z-i-n-g." she repeats, cheering, "Sesquioxidizing. One thousand, six hundred and seventy four points for me."

Fucking dog.

"What?!" he next thing she knows is that Christophe has jumped out of his seat, hands planted firmly on the kitchen table, "What the fuck is a Zey-zee-quee-whatever zhe fuck zhat was?!"

"Sesquioxide is an oxide that has three atoms of oxygen and two atoms of another element and Sesquioxidizing is the creation of sesquioxide. S-e-s-"

Christophe slams his fists down, causing the pieces to fly upward, scattering all over her tile floor. The man leans across the table, making Rebecca shrink back, not in fear… but maybe in intimidation. It was much like when he would interrogate agents for information, with less beatings of course. The Frenchman clicks his tongue, "You kiss your mère with zhat mouth?"

"I-it's just a game," she says with a murmur, his face close to hers, making her flush and shy away. "Uhm… what else would you want to play tonight?"

He instantly thought of his favorite games. And the kinky stuff too. Tying up with rope, toys, gags, dominance… anger dissipating as he flops back into the rickety chair. Entertained by the thought. He snaps his fingers, an idea coming to him as he brightens, "Truth or dare."

"I-Isn't that a little juvenile? I mean… it's a game girls play at slumber parties."

Christophe watches the woman squirm uncomfortably, which delights the Frenchman, "You? At a zlumber party? Liar. Zo, meess Zey-zee-quee- ox-die-zing, truth or dare?"

Her thinking process is this: anxiety, worry, fear, pseudo-confidence and back full circle. Rebecca searches the floor, as if her answer would lie down there. She's debating on what to do or say. It was unfamiliar territory to her, he knew already. "Truth."

So, instead of torturing her right away, he asks a simple question to test the waters, "Iz it true you like to win? Because, it seems you want it so bad, you'd zhow anyone under zhe bus."

"No! It's only healthy com-competition. It's good to challenge yourself and others."

Hearing that kindergarten shit was insufferable. She was they type woman who wouldn't mind blowing your biggest, baddest battleship to pieces or even slaughtering your freshly moved queen piece. He can't help but shout, "Bullshit! My turn. I pick dare."

"I dare you to…" she eyes the exits… hell even the window, ready to dart out of the room in any means necessary, "Let's stop playing-"

"Non! None of zhat. Play right," He leans back in his chair, satisfied with himself. What could make Rebecca squirm even more? Taking out her safety net! What's one option that's the safest? Christophe sets the stakes rather high, "No truths just dares. Winner iz champion. Refuse one dare and you lose-"

She butts in nervously, hands clapping steadily, "B-but, what if it's impractical or… so lecherous that I don't want to participate?"

"Lecherous? Are you zhinking with your crotch now?"

Rebecca squeaks, eyebrows furrowing as she crosses her legs tightly. Guilty conscious much? Or maybe he was being a pervert and offending her. Probably the second one. "Chr-Christophe!"

"I'm waiting for my dare."

"I dare you to never say that to me again." She snaps.

The one thing about these manipulative-like games that is that there would always be some sort of plotting between the two. In this case, Christophe has better leverage. Who gives a shit about Scrabble anyways? The English language was unnecessarily hard, but daring something outrageous to someone incredibly competitive like himself had some perks.

Now, he could finally as what was hiding under her skirt.

He clears his throat, as if she wouldn't hear him as he iterates in case she wouldn't, "Since you wasted a perfectly good dare… I dare you to strip."

At first, her face twists into horror, then shock and then finally, anger. There's a bit of an internal struggle. She pushes herself away from the table and it seems as though she's done. Her face is heated, she's scowling and shaking. It's obvious anger.

So, Christophe bent the envelope a little too hard.

Or not…

Her shaking hands find the buttons of her shirt. You could tell she was similar to that… "Tweek" character, since she was always checking them.

Christophe couldn't believe it. The prude, and near spelling champion was actually going to so this… in front of him! If he could, he'd rub his hands together mischievously but his ego was inflated as it was. She sheds off her shirt, silently spelling out curses as she does so, starting on her skirt before looking up at the Mole. Rebecca spits loudly, but nervously, "I dare you to… I-I dare you to strip too. I'm not going to be like this alone!"

A few more dares later, the two- or rather Rebecca- is getting used to the idea of being half nude around the Frenchman as they continue to dare each other silly or demeaning things. Both of them being as cruel or as merciless as they like.

Christophe poor excuse for begging and attempting to speak perfect English to Rebecca having to seem confident and sexy, sitting in his lap.

Little weaknesses the two had.

Christophe chuckles at Rebecca poor excuse for being sexy, letting down her poofy and curly hair. It only caused him to raise an eyebrow. From one to ten on the sexy scale it was a negative two. He rubs his chin, the woman still seated in his lap, "I dare you to be a dog… you poodle."

Ha, get it…? Lap dog…

"I hate that nickname," Her face scrunches up, "I was always teased because of my hair."

He doesn't listen, instead he takes it a little farther, testing the water… fall, "Ouaf, ouaf. Just like zhat."

"Christophe!"

"Do it."

"No."

"You'll lose," he says simply, singing on the very last part, "Do you really wanna lose coming this far? That's pa-the-tic."

"I… I'm not going to do that!" she shouts, her face finally showing anger.

Of course, Christophe thought he could bend the envelope a little more. It was a little teasing but he was sure she wasn't that thin skinned, right?

By the slap ringing out and the pain on his face he was guessing that was a strong no. The man shoots up to his feet, standing over her. Rebecca stays strong, unblinking against the mercenary's fierce glare. What he didn't expect doing is snatching her waist, kissing her… as she clawed at his chest angrily.

Uh, how did this happen again?

Wasn't really like those American romance movies he occasionally watched with Gregory…

That was, until the kiss became slightly needy… on both ends. And there was new steam to blow off that Christophe never really noticed. It was both communicated to the two without words as they clawed at whatever clothes remained on their bodies.

The floor wasn't exactly the most romantic setting…

But, the sound of flesh upon flesh, the sweat, and their mouths interlocking as they moved together, becoming one. Soft noises escaped them, ones that spoke of need, and pleasure, and release, as they were still curled together, breaths and heartbeats falling into rhythm.

…and all that sappy American bullshit.

In the afterglow it all, she's pouting. The tie between the two discouraging, although, it could have gone a lot worse. She winces, stretching out as she spells under her breath, "You're a little cheat. C-h-e-a-t."

"All iz fair in love and war." he scoffs, noticing her writhe underneath him even more. "What?"

"Back." Is all she says, lifting herself onto her elbows. It takes a moment moment to finally get the hint. He brushes a hand on her back, noticing hard lumps. The Frenchman peels off the few stray scrabble pieces from her and she flops back onto the tile, sighing, still flushing and breathing quick.

Christophe takes the pieces and lays them out precisely on the valley between her small breasts. He snickers to himself as she attempts to peer down, "What does it say?"

"L-o-s-e-r."

"Five points. I still win." Rebecca coos, smirking up at the man.

"Actually, I zhink we know who zhe real winner iz."

He hears another slap and the feeling of the woman's hand print stinging his cheek.


End file.
